I must go down to the polls again, to the Evangelical Hall
And all the usual rigmarole in the rickety wooden stall.
To the row of beady-eyed women with the separate jobs to do,
The ticking-off and the tearing-off and handing the blank to you.

I must go down to the polls again, to the pencil on a string
And the careful kiss in the special box that doesn’t change a thing
And the sucking of teeth and the half-belief that just this once it might
And the hollow laugh as I fold it in half, hoping I got it right.

I must go down to the polls again, to make my usual mark
Though my heart sinks and my head thinks “Oh, bugger this for a lark”.
But down I’ll go and the flag I’ll show as a citizen of the realm
And all I ask is a tight ship and an honest man at the helm.

This is why Socrates imbibed hemlock:
So I can wait in line around the block
To check a bubble with a number 2
Pencil—this democratic thing we do—
Bow my head in a hallowed cardboard stall
With gun nuts, plumbers, Wall Street sharks and all
Who think more deeply on the parking meter,
As they decide, meanwhile, ‘the Free World’s leader.’
If God’s a comic, this must be His theater.

It used to be conspiracies were fringe.
It used to be that thinking got respect.
But thinking would upset the nation’s binge,
Where news is ‘Elite Lies’ if it’s fact-checked.

You used to find each village had one village idiot;
But every village is today an idiot village.

From gentleman farmer
To Commonwealth harmer,
Villagers joined one kind
Of Village-Idiot-Mind:
It is playing with muck.
No wonder we are stuck.d

I am a jobbing poet, one
not known for being practical
but I can see how much depends
on good folk voting “tactical”.
It might demand a sacrifice
but surely there’s no doubt
that cheerio my deario
would get the lady out.

Don’t wring your hands and mutter
that a single voice won’t matter.
Come out and play your Xbox,
put the former in the latter.
Of course we’ll get Theresa
if our opposition’s lacking;
it’s cheerio my deario
that sends the lady packing.

The end is drawing nearer
and we have it in our sights
for cheerio my deario
could set the world to rights.
There’ll be dancing in the breaking dawn
that cannot come to soon
when it’s cheerio my deario
upon the ninth of June

Alas, Jerome, the time is out of joint,
whereon, I fear, you may have missed my point.
I mentioned "opposition", as you know,
but look! I spelled it with a little "o".
My cry is not to shun the two "king rats"
but to be smart and check your local stats,
using your vote to give the loudest shout
to those best placed to kick the Tories out.

(But thanks - your contribution made me see
that I must tweak my Flyte accordingly.).

Last edited by Ann Drysdale; 04-23-2017 at 01:46 AM.
Reason: restoring a lost "r" to "your".

Dear Ann, that times are truly fraught
Witness the Tory juggernaut
Crewed by a set of toxic blisters
Far worse than naïve Corbynistas.
Agreed, support the non-Con voice
In seats where it's the better choice,
So were I in some Midland place
With Labour second in the race
I might well even vote the rose
(A clothes-peg firmly on my nose.)

What do I see in the old crystal ball?
Those fool Corbynistas are left with f*ck all.
Likewise the Lib’rals, the Welsh and the Scots.
The regrettable Tories will triumph by lots.
I’m sorry I won’t be around on that day.
I’ll be out there in Trumpland, the US of A
When grov’lling remoaners are finally toast.
No worries, my luvvies. I voted by post.
These verses are dogg’rel. Their rhythms are sh*te.
But their general prognosis is probably right.